Gunpowder Kisses
by ohgoditsbriony
Summary: His kiss tastes like strawberries and gunpowder. Bang, baby—and you're down. —Ichigo/Rukia
1. ink and stains

**disclaimer:** Sadly, I don't own Bleach.  
><strong>summary: <strong>His kiss tastes like strawberries and gunpowder. Bang, baby — and you're down.  
><strong>notes: <strong>A drabble series, for you, Sara — and gosh, I'm so sorry it's so late, but hopefully I shall be able to keep track of this. I shall update it daily; because, a drabble a day keeps the doctor away.

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><p>The swans are beautiful.<p>

Pale and silent, they are a spreading white stain across an inky surface — they are like soft, sunlit watercolours spreading across the bold acrylics of a winter lake. And high above her hangs the ghost of a sun, intangible, almost like the fragment of a memory — like something clutching just at the surface of her mind, just reaching and touching and _feeling_. But the swans certainly are beautiful, gliding across the surface of the barely-frosted lake, like a breath of wind, and, even all those years later, she will remember them vividly. They're perfect — so brilliant, so _innocent_, that she finds herself captivated by them, watching as they trace threads of white through ink black.

The morning is cold. She tucks her hands beneath her armpits, hugging herself for warmth, clutching her over-sized coat — black, just like everything he owned — against her body. It is comfortable. It is a slice of normality. The hood falls over her face, hiding her forehead, shadowing her features — but the wind still somehow manages to tug at her hair.

A stray lock falls across her face, a jagged bolt of lightning hitting just between her eyes.

That was how he first found her, she thinks, stood there, watching the swans — and as a shadow approaches, she closes her eyes and pretends it's him. The illusion is ruined — he used to smell of strawberries and gunpowder; Renji, however, smells of cheap aftershave, cigarette smoke and coffee. He speaks to her, then, around the butt of a cigarette. "Nothin' like croissants and coffee in the mornin', right, Rukia?"

She sees no need to reply. She ignores his sigh. He sits down, then, on the grass beside her feet; she can smell the cigarette smoke curling and dancing around her, but she doesn't open her eyes. If she opens her eyes, she will see the swans, and, at least for a few seconds, she doesn't want her heart to ache. She feels like she's made of glass, then, one step away from shattering; and her heart squeezes, tugs, _hurts_ so much. She doesn't want to be reminded of him.

But, really, he is all she can ever think about, and so she opens her eyes. She thinks she misses him. She _knows_ she does.

"Renji," her voice is quiet, but it suddenly seems loud.

He looks up at her, then, long, thin fingers clutching the cigarette; it's a filthy thing. She hates that he smokes. He took it up not long after joining the police force and, since then, he only smokes more and more, to the point where he sees through a hazy cloud of grey and black. The glow casts a shadow across his face. His mouth is one long line, turned down at the edges. His face has gotten thinner; there are bags beneath his eyes. By his side sits two coffees. She sits down, then, picking one of them up — the one he pushes ever so slightly towards her — and places it against her lips.

She takes a sip.

"You're not eating," he says; he's turned away from her again, eyes facing the lake, watching the swans with mild interest. "It's not like you."

She raises an eyebrow. "Hypocrite."

He smiles, then, tapping a bag by his side. "Not quite — I have croissants. _You_, however, haven't eaten anythin', and I know that for a fact. You were stayin' at Rangiku's last night."

"It's too empty at — at the flat."

"You should at least go back and get a change of clothes," Renji sniffs. "You _stink."_

"I do _not."_

He flapping a hand in front of his face, grinning as she opens and closes her mouth, gaping. Renji is the only person who can distract her so easily, now that he's gone. She leans against him and wishes he could be by her side forever — as a friend, someone who can help her through each and every day, place a smile upon her face like Rangiku has been trying to do. But he can't — he's a police officer, after all. A _detective_, she corrects herself — it was something he'd always enjoyed thrusting into people's faces. He was a _detective_, now, just like she used to be before—

She stops thinking.

"Renji," and her voice is a whisper again; she feels like a child. "When will I stop remembering?"

He doesn't say anything — just takes a drag of his cigarette and shrugs a lazy shoulder. Sits there in silence. She feels a little bit scared. She wonders, really, if she _does_ want to forget; if she wants the memories all to just vanish. And, as she thinks that, she can smell strawberries and gunpowder, and she pretends he's there.

She closes her eyes.

One by one, the swans take to the sky.


	2. a first glance, a first gaze

**dedication:** For Sara.  
><strong>notes: <strong>Life is pretty awesome, currently.

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><p>Bring back the years, the months, the weeks — days, hours, seconds return. Winters fade into autumns; leaves change from amber and red, copper colours like flames, to bright, shining greens. Summer is back again. And summer vanishes, too; blossom springs from the trees, and it is springtime — and then the blossom disappears, and the branches are gnarly, curled, crooked. And then it is winter again. And the process begins and ends over and over and over again, as time trickles backwards, as everyone runs in reverse. And everything changes.<p>

It is three years ago, and Rukia's heart isn't broken.

It is three years ago, and he is still there.

It is three years ago, and time starts anew.

It is winter again.

She's sitting beneath the old oak tree, in front of the frozen lake, hands clasping a hot chocolate in front of her. She is watching the children slip and slide over the icy surface, giggling, cheeks rosy from the cold; each bout of laughter hangs in the air, a frozen breath, a ghostly flame. They're wrapped up well, she thinks, head to toe in material — the little boy is wearing a red scarf, not unlike the one wrapped around her own neck, and the little girl is wearing orange mittens. They're so playful. They laugh together, hand in hand, meeting with other children, each of them playing their own little game — even when the lake is frozen, when the lake is _dead_, it is still playful.

A shadow falls over her.

She looks up.

"Mind if I sit here?" Renji says. The tip of his nose is bright red — his teeth are chattering, and he's not wearing a jacket; just a flimsy shirt, pale blue. She thinks she bought it for him for his last birthday. She raises an eyebrow.

"You're under-dressed."

"And _cold_," he adds.

"Yes," she agrees, before patting the damp grass beside her, "And cold. Where's your coat?"

Renji sits down, and she notices beads of sweat shining upon his forehead. Now, both of her eyebrows shoot upwards, and she hands him what's left of her hot chocolate, despite the fact that he hates the stuff. "Ugh. Tastes like dirt," he remarks, as he takes a sip, "And I took it off. I was runnin'. Chasin' this guy who we caught stealin' from a shop — he took off before we could talk to him, so I chased. I got hot — took it off."

"You're ridiculous," Rukia replies. "Were you with Soifon?"

"Nah, not this time," he shrugs, takes another sip, blanches, "It was Ikkaku."

She snorts, rolling her eyes again. "No wonder. You always get silly when you're around_ him."_

"I wasn' gettin' silly!" Renji snaps, defensive immediately; his fingers tighten around hot chocolate cup — nearly empty, now, she thinks, and she notices his nose is turning a darker shade of pink —, and his eyebrows almost meet in a frown. She counts the wrinkles on his forehead, a childish smirk crossing her face. "I was bein' _heroic. _Not silly. Don't call me _silly—"_

"Six."

He blinks. "Wha'?"

"Six," she repeats, raising an eyebrow. "Six wrinkles. If you don't stop frowning, Renji, your forehead'll get even _wrinklier."_

His mouth opens and closes, opens and closes, one, two, three times, and she can't stop grinning her triumph. She crosses her hands over her chest, cruel satisfaction as his hand gingerly, tentatively, reaches up to touch his forehead — he runs his fingers across the plain, smooth skin, before letting out a grunt of annoyance, turning away from her with a little pout on his face. Scowling. He's sulking, she realises, just like he used to do when they were little, and she can barely stop herself from cackling in triumph. But then his face turns serious, and his eyes narrow, and his scowl darkens, and he begins to stand up.

She grips his wrist. "I was only _joking, _Ren—"

"Tha's _him."_

Rukia follows his gaze.

Renji begins to walk towards him.

"Tha's the guy I was chasin'."

.

.

**notes**1**: **I think these drabbles will alternate between Ichigo & Rukia's point of view. :)  
><strong>notes<strong>2**: **Please keep reading and reviewing!


	3. shot like a bullet

**dedication:** Still for Sara. And to Elle, who has been awesome and will keep being awesome.  
><strong>notes: <strong>I quite like writing this, it's fun.

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><p>Breathing fast.<p>

In, out — in, out.

Heart hammering.

One, two — one, two.

His chest is beginning to hurt, now, and he glances back over his shoulder, wondering whether he's far enough away. There's no one on the path behind him. He leans forwards, gasping for air, hands resting on his knees; the satchel he's carrying — the one he _needs_ — swings heavily against his leg, reminding him of the weight he's carrying, of the things he has to do. He straightens, then, thinking it's far too cold to be running around like this; his cheeks have turned bright red, from the sheer force of running headfirst into the blistering cold. His features slip back into their usual scowl, as he takes in his surroundings, glancing first at the frozen lake, at the little children, at the comforting parents—

For a few seconds, he stops and just watches.

Places his hands in his pockets, stands still, and listens to the sound of laughter, of a cooing, adoring mother, of a friend, of a family; it's giving him a headache, he thinks, and he sort of wants to go back home. Give his sisters a hug. Talk to his dad, long into the night. Say another prayer for his mother. But, if he goes home, they'll _know_ something is wrong, that he's finally slipped and mixed up with the wrong sort.

He's too busy thinking — he doesn't notice the footsteps quickly approaching.

A hand grips his wrist, and he's turned around. He narrows his eyes, ready to hiss a warning and break away, but it's that cop from before — the one with the red hair, who'd thrown off his jacket and chased him all the way to this park. And, what? He _hadn't_ stopped chasing him. _Hadn't _given up?

"Are you followin' me?"

"I could ask the same thing to you," Red replies, sniffing slightly, "_I _was here first."

"You're creepy," Ichigo says blankly, and Red just gapes. "Who's she?"

She's stood a little behind behind the cop, with pale skin and dark eyes, a small smile across her face. She looks a little bit cold, even though she's wearing a jacket and bright red scarf. She doesn't fit Red, he thinks. Red — whatever his actual name is, who knows and who _cares_ — is scruffy and messy, over-confident and overbearing — he's like _Ichigo_, really, but Ichigo doesn't want to think that for too long. No, the girl stood behind them is elegant, perfectly poised and thoughtful. _Rich, _he thinks, and sniffs his disdain.

"I don't have to tell you _anythin'—"_

"Rukia," she answers for herself, nodding in greeting. "That's Renji. He was telling me about you. What's in the bag?"

That's when Red — _Renji_, he corrects himself — notices the bag. His free hand moves towards his pocket, searching for handcuffs, and Ichigo can practically see what the other's thinking. Drugs, right? It has to be drugs. But it isn't — it's something worse than any old drug — and so that's when he twists, jerking sharply — he crouches down slightly, bringing his arm backwards, causing Red to stumble over his back and fall to the floor. Then he moves again, kicking out with his right leg — Red goes tumbling down the short amount of bank, and slips out onto the frozen lake with enough force to crack the thing. And then children everywhere are running for safety, as little cracks appear across the ice, and Red emerges, spluttering and looking furious.

Ichigo, meanwhile, glances at Rukia.

She doesn't look as if she's going to move to catch him, and he wonders why; she's sort of just tilting her head, staring at him like he's an insect or food or something. Maybe she's in shock. He doesn't care. He offers her a little jaunty wave, a sort of lopsided smile, and then runs again. Runs and runs and runs, until his breathing is coming in gasps, and he can barely hear Red's curses and yells. He runs and runs and runs, until he can feel his heart hammering in perfect rhythm to his steps.

One, two.

In, out.

One, two.

In, _out._

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**notes**1**: **So, first little burst of action, and it's from Ichigo!  
><strong>notes<strong>2**: **Keep reading and reviewing!


	4. trouble now

**dedication:** To Sara.  
><strong>notes: <strong>I am doing so awesome at school-y things, it's not even _funny. _I need to chill out for a little while.

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><p>"What the <em>hell<em> was _that_, Rukia?"

At first, she doesn't quite hear Renji's spluttering protests — she is too busy wondering herself why she didn't apprehend the boy; he was, after all, stood right in front of her. And he _did_ just assault a policeman; and said policeman _is_ her friend. But, for some reason, she hadn't stopped him; thinking back, she realises she didn't want to stop him. There was something in his eyes, something that made her feel a little bit small, despite the fact that he was fresh-faced, young; maybe four or five years younger than her, she ventures, because his features weren't quite chiseled enough — seventeen, she thinks?

Eighteen, maybe?

Still, she's too old to be blushing.

Her friend waves a dripping hand in front of her face, teeth chattering, "Earth to Rukia! What were you _thinkin'? _Why didn't you stop him?"

She blinks, eyeing him apprehensively. "You look cold," she states blankly, shoving her hands into her pockets and raising an eyebrow. "Did you enjoy your dip?"

"You could have _stopped_ him!"

"You shouldn't have blundered so thoughtlessly into a fight you couldn't win."

"Yeah, but I figured that maybe _after_ he threw me into a _lake_ — I figured, hey, y'know what, _Rukia'll _stop him, 'cause she's a _cop_ too, and stoppin' bad guys is what she _does."_

"Maybe you just shouldn't figure _anything—"_

"Maybe you should do your _job—"_

It's just like old times, she thinks, when she used to shout at Renji for reading her diary or trekking mud into her bedroom or shifting through her underwear drawer. It's just like old times, she thinks, when she used to read Renji's diary out loud to her friends, complete with kissy noises and arched eyebrows. They're stood directly opposite each other, him with his arms crossed firmly over his chest, partly out of cold, partly out of defiance — her hands are tucked into her pockets, and she is cool, aloof, a face she saves only for arguments and her brother. They stare at each other for a moment longer, before Renji sighs and Rukia gives in. She slips off her coat.

"Here."

He splutters a protest.

"Take _it_," she practically hisses, and he rushes to put the coat on, eyeing her warily — she tuts. "Wrong. Top off, _then_ put the coat on, otherwise you'll just soak that through, too."

"Or you just want to see me naked," Renji flashes a grin, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, eyes never leaving her face. She is unflustered, and that's something he both likes and hates about her.

Other women would be squealing right now.

Rukia, stood there in her red, woolly jumper, matching her red scarf, is unfazed.

"It's not like it's anything I haven't seen before," she replies, reaching out for the shirt — he hands it to her, and she holds it an arm's length away, trying to keep the sopping wet material away from her body. She really doesn't want to get wet, especially now that she's missing her coat — her jumper is warm, and the scarf is nice, but if she gets wet, she'll be miserable. "And it wasn't impressive back then, either. Put the coat on, and hurry up; you need to get some clothes on."

When Renji finally has Rukia's coat pulled over his shoulders — it looks comical, she thinks, far too short at the sleeves, and far too girly —, they begin to walk together, side by side, in a beautiful silence. He's looking upwards, staring at the sky, wishing his cigarettes weren't all soaking wet in the pocket of his trousers, right now. She's staring at the ground, arms crossed over her chest, wondering who the boy was — what was in his bag. She hopes it isn't drugs. She hates drug cases — there's far more paperwork, and it would just be sad. Drugs don't suit a boy with such bright hair and bright eyes, she thinks, and then she nudges Renji.

"Hey, Ren'?"

She uses the nickname from when they were small — Renji heaves a sigh. "You should just outright say when you want somethin', idiot. What is it?"

"Did you know his name?"

"Whose — the kid from earlier?"

She nods.

"Nah, he was on Hisagi's turf. He might know, tho'. I'll check it out, if you want."

She chews her lip for a moment, thinking. She is silent for just a fraction too long, and Renji turns to look at her curiously, just as he decides to screw it all and smoke a damp cigarette anyway. He rummages through the pockets of his coat for a lighter, remembers it isn't his coat at all, and then reaches into his pockets and finds them empty. It must have fallen out when he fell into the lake, he thinks, and feels slightly stupid with an unlit cigarette perched between his lips. But Rukia's silence is more interesting now, and he forgets entirely about his cigratte-lighter-predicament, and gazes at her.

"Why? What're you thinkin' about that brat?"

She shrugs.

"He's interesting."

"He's _trouble_," Renji says, "And that is that."

.

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**notes**1**: **Thanks so much for the reviews so far! Keep reviewing, please!


	5. electric shock

**dedication:** Oh dude, Sara, cuz I'm awesome, I even wrote another one. Also for Juveniliare, thank you for the reviews! ;)  
><strong>notes: <strong>Aha, I'm aiming to update every day, but, as you can see, school is being a bitch; so, I'll probably be updating irregular for next week. Then I have a holiday, so yeah!

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><p>After what seems like an age, Ichigo finally slows to a halt; the satchel thuds into his thigh one final time, before falling still, and he bends over, hands on knees, sucking in air. He stands like that for a little while, in the middle of the street, families walking around him, offering each other a familiar look before wandering away. He doesn't care, though — when he's finally got his breath back, he begins to walk again, this time much more alert than before. He can't help but feel as though that cop is still on his trail — can't help but feel as though every cruising car will suddenly turn into an undercover detective, and it'll be "what's in the bag, son?" before he even has a chance to run away.<p>

He should have remembered to be more alert, back then.

He wonders, for the first time, why the girl — Rukia, she said her name was, and she was probably older than him; a few years older than a _girl_, he thinks — let him go. That's the only reason he's still walking about now, after all; had she stepped in, he would have immediately grown still, purely out of stupid, manly pride. Besides, his mother told him never hit a girl, Ichi — never hit a boy — never hit _anyone_. No matter the reason, don't do it; and he's happy he can at least say he's never hit a girl, even if he's hit plenty of boys.

"Kid, you're dozin'," someone says, nudging his shoulder.

Automatically, Ichigo recoils, knowing it _has_ to be that damn cop again, and his fist comes up — he lashes out, a quick punch which collides with nothing. The other has ducked below the swing, and he feels arms around his legs, and then they're both on the floor, struggling and squirming to get back up. The stranger — not a stranger, he realises too late, because he recognises that voice — stands up first, offering a cruel, sharp grin, hand outstretched; Ichigo is still on the floor, albeit ready to push himself upwards, satchel lost. He sees it in the hands of the other. A stranger with an electric shock of blue hair and sharp eyes — deadly teeth, deadly smile, deadly hands and a deadly gun, tucked into his suit jacket.

Ichigo scowls.

"Grimmjow. Give it _back."_

"Finders keepers, I'm thinkin'," Grimmjow replies, holding the satchel just above Ichigo's head, a taunting smirk stretched across his face — a handsome face, probably, if it wasn't always so cruel — if it wasn't always splashed with dirt and grime and _blood_, "'sides, _you _started it."

"Whatever," he snaps, pulling himself to his feet, ignoring the hand Grimmjow has offered him, "Give it _back."_

"You're like a broken record, kid," the other taunts, and they're walking alongside each other now. "We're goin' the same way, anyway — might as well hold onto it for a little while, considerin' how _easily_ I just took you down. Wha's the matter, gettin' _soft_, are we?"

Ichigo figures the best way to talk to Grimmjow is to just not talk to him whatsoever. He tucks his hands into his pockets, feeling his temper rise, but ignores it; he may as well. With a scowl on his face, the other can already tell that he's bugging him, and that's about all the moron needs. He's chattering away, firing insults like bullets, but Ichigo ignores him; after all, if he closes his eyes, Grimmjow's not there any more. No bright blue hair — a shoddy dye job, probably, but Grimmjow swears it's natural. No icy eyes, always watching, always waiting, twinkling with cruel humour. And, best of all, no stupid tattoo, reminding Ichigo just how low down he is in the food chain.

"Take it, then," Grimmjow says suddenly, and the satchel thumps into Ichigo's chest — out of reflexes, he only just manages to catch it.

Hopes the contents isn't broken.

Glowers at Grimmjow.

"Asshole," he mutters.

"_Brat_," the other replies, with a small smile.

Absently, Ichigo wonders when it became normal for him to walk side by side with a well-known crook; when it became normal for him to trade insults with a criminal; when it became normal for him to even _speak_ to a goddamn _murderer. _He wonders why he does these things. Why he does any of the things he does. He wonders if his mother is looking down on him, with a frown on her face, reminding him that it's not okay to fight — that he doesn't need to fight, he's a bright boy, he should just talk. He thinks, maybe if she _is _looking down on him, she'll not be proud of him anymore. He wonders.

The satchel weighs against his side.

It feels like a bullet.

.

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**notes**1**: **You know the drill. ;)


	6. speed away

**dedication:** Another for Sara. ;D  
><strong>notes: <strong>I'M ON HOLIDAY, WOO!

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><p>They walk for a while longer, side by side, arms swinging in synchronisation; neither of them will admit it, but they are more similar than they would like to believe. Ichigo shoves his hands into his pockets, head bowed down, a grimace across his face; he walks slowly, mind elsewhere, beside the other; Grimmjow presses a cigarette against his lips, takes a drag, and promptly scowls, throwing the thing down in disgust. He is a smoker. He dislikes it greatly; it is a loss of control, and it scares him.<p>

It is something Ichigo can relate to.

Walking together, it feels as if time passes too slowly. He can see, hear, _feel_ everyone around him. A mother scolds her child, but the concern is obvious in her eyes and she cradles her child as the little boy cries. A group of girls giggle together, flashing him a meaningful glance as he passes; absently, he thinks they're all probably only a few years older than his sisters. A little boy kicks a stone across the pavement; a pidgeon settles beside an old man on a bench, pecking at a couple of old chips; a man with a briefcase stands and calls for a taxi. A few steps in front of them, a car with black tinted windows pulls up, and Grimmjow raises an eyebrow and mumbles something about a surprise. The car door opens and a figure steps out.

Grimmjow's scowl darkens. "Ulquiorra," he spits out the name like it's something rotten, and reaches for another cigarette.

Ichigo simply frowns.

Ulquiorra is a beautiful man; that cannot be denied, by anyone. His skin is pale, milky white, contrasting with deep green eyes and dark, inky hair; he moves with an elagance that no other known man has. He is soft-spoken and polite, dressed in a fine kimono; it is pure white, with an emerald sash; it looks ridiculously, incredibly expensive, and no doubt hides some sort of blade. He is like a character from a manga, Ichigo thinks, all comic book lines and grace. He looks unflawed. It's an incredible thing, really; it leaves people breathless. In fact, as he steps from the car, a woman turns to watch, and a man looks up from his newspaper, transfixed — he has a presence which seeps and crawls and creeps, until people cannot help but stare. But he is cold, and his gaze is icy as he stares straight at them.

"Ulquiorra," Grimmjow repeats, and Ichigo can practically feel the anger radiating from the other. He still doesn't understand what has happened between the two, nor does he truly comprehend Grimmjow's hatred, but, whatever it is, it amuses him. It shows Ulquiorra is human, for he mirrors that hatred as the two walk to meet; his features are taut and his shoulders are rigid.

"...Grimmjow."

"You're late."

"You are lying," and, as simply as that, Grimmjow is dismissed — Ulquiorra turns to face Ichigo, scanning the other's features and then, finally, staring at the satchel. "You have it."

"Obviously," Ichigo replies, shifting the satchel's strap off his shoulder, readying himself to hand it out to Ulquiorra; this is how the meetings always go. He meets with an accomplice of the boss, hands over the merchandise, and then heads away with the cash — this time, however, Ulquiorra shakes his head.

"He wishes to speak with you."

Ichigo tenses. "Why?"

"I did not ask," Ulquiorra raises an eyebrow. "And you cannot refuse. Follow me."

He turns and heads back to the car, without another word; he's silent, despite the fact that his kimono presses against the floor — absently, Ichigo cannot help but wonder why it remains so clean, as he follows the other. Beside him, Grimmjow takes another drag at the cigarette, glances briefly down at it, and grumbles something about arrogant bastards. As Ichigo follows, a bus passes; by chance, he glances up. By chance, brown eyes meet violet; he sees her, and his eyes widen. She is sat by Red, staring out the window; her eyes widen as she spots him, and she stands up. Red looks in his direction, eyes widening before narrowing, and he springs to his feet as well; he moves over to the bus driver, disappears from view, and the bus begins to slow down.

Never taking his eyes from Rukia, Ichigo believes it's about time he made his getaway.

He sits down in the back of the car, beside Ulquiorra, and Grimmjow sits beside him, slamming the door shut; absently, Ichigo leans across Ulquiorra, ignoring the other's quiet, indignant protest — he stares out of the window, and spots Red moving across the road towards them, reaching into his pocket. Ulquiorra spots the cop too. He frowns. "Who is that, Kurosaki?"

"His boyfriend, probably," Grimmjow snaps, takes another drag from the cigarette, and doesn't even glance in Red's direction.

"Shut your face, idiot. He's just a guy. We need to drive."

They wait for a moment longer, and then Ulquiorra nods, meeting the driver's gaze in the rearview mirror. "Go."

As the car pulls away, he spots her again.

Their eyes meet—

Who _is _she?

_Who_ is _he?_

_—_and then she is gone.

.

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**notes**1**: **I love writing this so much! Keep reviewing, please.


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